


Small Mercies

by JokerzPrincezz



Series: Of Broken Things and Their Golden Gleams [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: FTM John Watson, Friends to Lovers, Jim is a monster, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft ex machina, Mycroft is basically God, Mycroft is basically magic and bullshit his brother fell in love on accident, Pre-Pool, Rape Aftermath, The Pool Scene, Trans Issues, Trans Male Character, Trans!John, but i like them anyway, fight me, stupid headcanons that don't actually matter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 09:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18753736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JokerzPrincezz/pseuds/JokerzPrincezz
Summary: John Watson builds himself from the ground up. He brings a whole new meaning to "pulling yourself up by the bootstraps". From toe to head, he's a man made of blood and tears. Until he meets Sherlock Holmes. Then he's a man made of blood and friendship.But, John Watson has a secret. He's not ashamed, per say, but he's built too much to see it crumble because of something as random as biology. And, he tells himself, this secret shouldn't matter. This secret shouldn't get to dictate his life. And it certainly shouldn't influence he and Sherlock's friendship.Jim Moriarty, however, seems to have other ideas.A brother who tries to play matchmaker and gets out done by fate herself, a monster who just wants to see people burn, and two men who are too in love to care about either of the above.





	Small Mercies

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO  
> I wrote this in 2 days. It's finals week, I'm dying.  
> This has been bouncing in my head a while. I just wanted to explore Johns inner strength and his relationship with Sherlock.
> 
> Some laws about trans people may be out of date and incorrect. We're going to assume John joined the military in mid-2000s ish. According to the handy dandy internet, trans folks weren't allowed to serve openly in UK till 2014. I don't know what the actual punishments would have been, but they would have existed. John defines himself by his military career, home boy would've done a lot to keep his biology under wraps, including keeping it hush hush after he left. JUST ROLL WITH ME PLEASE, IT'S 1AM.
> 
> I'M NOT TRANS, I'M NOT A TRANS AUTHORITY, I am a cis female. John's issues are based on my amazing friends who have transitioned (and boy let me tell you, that is some hard fuckin shit in Texas my bro), and my own mental issues (PTSD, and bi polar are like the perfect evil dynamic duo. Asshole Batman and Robin). John is working hard to push all those issues aside and repress them, John is not unaffected, he's an army man. 
> 
> DISCLAIMER  
> This is a story, I am not an expert on trans issues or rape aftermath. If you are having mental issues I, and Sherlock, encourage you to talk to a therapist. Friends can love you, but only a trained professional can help you move past your issues or address them in a healthy manner. Being in love doesn't fix stuff, getting treatment can, though. 
> 
> This story has trans body issues (minor, John's pretty confident) a rape scene (minor, non-graphic) and healthy relationships
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO minor side note I promised a kind reviewer I’d add, if you are a trans man it is still possible, though highly unlikely for you to get pregnant. HOWEVER John has been fixed. He had his tubes tied ages ago before he left for the army. Hence, he is basically unable to get pregnant. So just to clear up, I’m aware trans men can get pregnant, but John can’t. Not because writer magic but because he’s medically unable to.

Pain, blinding pain stabbing at the back of his head.

What the actual fuck? He’d gone to see Sarah, hadn’t he? And Sherlock… oh Christ. His heart sped up but his eyes stayed glued shut in ringing pain. Fuck, Sherlock, was he ok? He was at home wasn’t he…?

“Wakey wakey!” a high cold voice sing-songed as overwhelming light flooded John’s immediate area.

He groaned and turned his head into his bad shoulder, taking stock of his surroundings. He was standing, his arms pulled over his head and circled in thick metal cuffs, his arms and shoulders screamed in agony as he shakily got his feet under him. There was barely enough give in the chains ( _had to be chains, he could hear the rattling_ ) for him to stand flat on his feet. He was also nude, a lightening bolt of fear and anger shot through him, but he calmed when he shifted and felt cloth ( _and body warmed silicone_ ) still encasing his thighs and hips.

It was a herculean effort for John to crack his eyes open to slits, before hissing against the florescent lights and slamming them closed again. He was in some old warehouse, how cliché.

“Ahhh there you are Johnny boy!” the gleeful voice squealed with delight.

John's jaw clenched in annoyance, but he steeled himself and opened his eyes. He was met with the sight of two men. One was a man just shorter than him in a grey suit and blood red tie. The man was smaller than John, a thin wiry thing that John vaguely recognized. It wasn’t until the man gave him a leering smile that John realized where he’d seen him. This was Molly’s paramour, the one she tried to trot in front of Sherlock unsuccessfully, only for Sherlock to peg the man as gay. God that man could be such an arse.

( _John thought, though, for the millionth time, that if Sherlock could tell such a thing at first glance, he must know about John. But if he did, why did he never say anything? Though he probably didn’t care. What did it matter what John had between his legs, long as he could hold a gun and stitch Sherlock up?_ )

The other man John didn’t recognize. A tall man with hair so dark blond it was nearly brown. He was all muscle and clearly military, with a hard face and large gun callused hands. Though his face was hard it wasn’t cruel, not like Jim. This man had a job to do, there was a tension though, and his eyes stayed squarely off to the side of John's body, refusing to eye the nearly naked man. Something John was grateful for. Small mercies. Finally, John lazily rolled his eyes back to Jim.

“And what exactly do you want?” Jim smiled, and John was nearly shocked that the little man didn’t have rows of little pointy shark teeth.

“Oh, nothing yet. We’ve a few hours before it’s time to meet Sherly.” Jim approached slowly, eyeing John appreciatively, John didn’t squirm. Instead he grunted and tried to roll his aching shoulder.

“And you took my clothes because…?”

“I was curious.” John swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“About?”

“You.”

“Me?” Jim stopped in front of him. His eyes slid over John’s face like slimy tentacles.

“I was curious to see what had Sherlock Holmes so interested in you.”

John let out a humorless laugh.

“You didn’t need my clothes for that, mate. I'm a crack shot, steady hands, and I don’t yell when there’s heads in the kitchen. Good enough for a roommate I reckon.”

“You make him sound like me.” Jim smiled and gave a simpering glance to the other man in the room. “You military boys, so loyal, so useful. Though after meeting you I do wish mine was a doctor. How much more fun would my Sebby be if he could remove organs without killing someone?”

“Loads, I’m sure.” John said dryly, shifting again. “ _Sebby_ ” clenched his jaw, but otherwise held deathly still, it was all too easy to forget he was there. Jim gave a small chuckle, turning back to John.

“Yes… well, that’s not what I meant, though, you do have lovely hands Dr. Watson.” John clenched his fists. “No, I meant to see what has Holmes so _smitten_ with you. Oh you’re attractive enough, but I had pegged him for asexual, personally.” John was thrown for a loop and let out a confused snort.

“Wait, what? Sherlock? Smitten? Oh Christ, you’re off your rocker aren’t you? Sherlock doesn’t do that.”

“He used to. Some boy from grade school. Victor... Trevor, or something.” Jim said absently. He stepped a bit closed and ran his hands down John’s side. John jerked away from him.

“Stop it.” He said tensely.

 Suddenly he realized how vulnerable he really was. Nearly nude, nothing but a few millimeters of cloth separating his best kept secret from this man. He jerked back again when the mans thumbs hooked in the waistband of his pants.

“You’re Moriarty, aren’t you?” he said, nearly desperate.

 He got the feeling this man was much like Sherlock. Perhaps if he could keep him talking, John would be fine until Sherlock found him. He wouldn’t even be tempted to punch his beautiful ( _brilliant_ ) roommate for the inevitable acerbic comment about his kidnapping if the man would just barge in right now.

“Ohh what a clever little puppy you are.” Jim, no, Moriarty, purred. His hands didn’t move.

“Yes, I’m Jim, Jim Moriarty. And you…” he sighed dreamily and suddenly shoved John’s pants down. John cried out in panic and crossed his legs, trying to hide, flinching away. The packer in his pants was still cradled in the cloth and hit the ground with a soft muffled sound John couldn’t hear through the ringing in his ears.

“Well… you’re not exactly who you claim to be, are you Miss Emma Janine Watson?”

John couldn’t breathe, he was curled in on himself, his blood pounding, shoulders aching. He hadn’t… He hadn’t heard that name in _years_. Not since his own mother, whom he was originally named after, died just before he deployed. No one had called him that since he left for college. There was rage and indignation in his chest, blooming to life. He wanted to say something snarling and witty, he wanted the natural wry snark he seemed to possess when sparring lazily at home with Sherlock. ( _A different pain in his chest. Would Sherlock care about his old identity? Surely not, but the man wasn’t known for his tact at the best of times_.) but all he could do was spit a rough “ ** _fuck you_** ” at the man, his face still turned down.

“Nooo… That’ll be you, won’t it?” Jim said, mouth twisted up in a grin. John looked up at him in shock ( _because what the fuck excuse you? John hadn’t been fucked since he and James ran out of lube in the desert and John let the older man top_ ) Jim just snapped his fingers.

Sebby sprang into action. John snarled again, his muscles coiling. Yea, this guy was bigger, but John wasn’t a Captain for nothing, John had no qualms about breaking his neck and strangling Moriarty to death with his bare hands.

“Sorry mate.” Sebby said softly, there was something choked in his voice.

By the time John had gotten past his shock and registered what was happening, Sebby had him in new cuffs and the old ones, which were attached to the ceiling, were removed. John snarled and tried to strike out, but his feet were still tangled in his pants and Sebby had an iron grip on him. All John could do was struggle fruitlessly. Sebby nearly frog-marched John out of the room.

God, _fuck_ , John was panicking. What was he supposed to do? He was bound, this “Sebby” was armed to the teeth, god what was in store for him? Torture? Rape? But why? How would hurting John possibly hurt Sherlock? At most Sherlock would be annoyed with Moriarty hurting John. And wouldn’t that just make him _more_ determined to catch Moriarty? Perhaps that’s what the man wanted though? Another horrible thought struck John then, as they turned a corner into a new hall.

What if Moriarty destroyed his hands? Sherlock would look past his physique. John had proven time and again he could keep up with Sherlock, he’d more than proven himself a worthy opponent for Sherlock's adversaries. But his _hands_ … If John didn’t have his hands what use would he be to Sherlock? If Moriarty destroyed his hands, even in a minor way, John would become disposable. No hands meant no shooting, or fighting, no mending or binding bloodied wounds and fractured ribs. He couldn’t mentally keep up with Sherlock, and the stupidly gorgeous genius had never shown any desire for his body. John had nothing to give. He’d be out on the streets or left at home like an aging dog. And one day, Sherlock would bring home a new puppy, someone who was clever and beautiful, with steady hands and perfect aim. Sherlock would say that this new person wasn’t a replacement. But it wouldn’t be true.

As Moriarty opened a new door John began to hyperventilate. He saw his life crumbling, saw himself losing Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and Baker Street, saw himself losing late nights and crime scene giggles and playful sparing and yelling at crap telly together and Chinese takeout at 3am and and…

And as the door swung open and John saw a dingy mattress and a tripod with a video camera on it, John saw himself losing something else. Something he’d worked far longer to obtain…

He saw himself loosing control of his own body. Decades of shorn hair, and long needles, and sneaking around behind his friends and fathers backs, and paying off military doctors and surgery scars long since paled out to nearly nothing unless you were in the right light. Decades of birthing John Watson through blood and sweat and tears born of loss and fear, decades of molding a miserable, angry little girl into a strong, independent man who was deadly without being cruel like his father had been. Decades of having to learn what it meant to be himself, of trying to pretend he didn’t know that as much as his mother loved and supported him, she still cried for the little girl she lost. ( _though John tried to tell her again and again he wasn’t lost, just had a different name and pronoun. John was still John, he’d always been John, he’d just not had a name for it_.)

And here were these men. It was clear what they planned to do, they planned to humiliate him, rape him, take control of his own body away, then turn around and show someone. Sherlock most likely. And wasn’t that another note of uncertainty.

Sherlock finding out all John had been though to get here, the lies and broken laws that birthed Captain John H. Watson and the thousands of pounds and doctors’ appointments that put his body to rights and got him through medical school with his sanity intact wouldn’t lessen Sherlock's view of him.

But this.

This loss of control. This loss of strength. What would Sherlock think of this? ( _John couldn’t think about what_ he _would think of this, because honestly that was an even bigger mystery than Sherlock's reaction._ )

John couldn’t help it, his feet stopped, he shrank back, pushing against Sebby’s iron grip. His breathing was too fast, his lips were tingling from the lack of oxygen and he felt like he was going to hurl.

“Don’t” was all he could gasp as Moriarty made his way over to the camera. Moriarty let out a snort when he looked up.

The camera was rolling.

Moriarty approached, still shaking with residual laughter.

“Oh Johnny,” ( _John, not “Emma”_ _small mercies, John thought_ ) “You really think there’s anything you can do to stop this? Nooo… no, you’re powerless here, Dr. Watson.” Moriarty grabbed his chin, turning his face to the camera.

The little red light blinking and mocking him. Moriarty made an odd sound then, like someone tsking at a dog, and yanked his head towards the mattress that looked older than John. John tried to resist, his feet less digging in, and more rooted to the spot. There was a metal loop, like what you’d use to tether a massive hound, twisted into the plaster wall at the head of the bed. It had obviously just been put in, bits of plaster were still littering the naked mattress. This whole thing felt odd for Moriarty.

As Sebby tethered John to the screw in the wall with the same set of cuffs taken from the last room, John realized why. This wasn’t planned. Moriarty must have found out something, John’s biological sex or something else, and thrown all this together in a hurry. A moment later this theory was confirmed. Moriarty crouched by his head and sighed dramatically as he carded his fingers through John’s short locks.

“If it makes you feel any better, this isn’t personal. It’s not to do with you, and not even totally to do with my dear Sherlock.” ( _possessive envy clawed at John's throat and he narrowed his eyes._ ) “Your owners don’t keep as tight a leash on you as they ought to. It’s dangerous for them to let out such a vital pawn in their game.” Moriarty smiled at him, it would have been a gentle smile, if not for his calculating eyes. John, of course, had no idea what the hell Moriarty was on about.

Moriarty stood suddenly and walked over to the camera. He fidgeted with it for a moment, before grinning.

“Sebby” he sing-songed once more. Sebby stood to attention at parade rest, eyes cast down. “Mount him.” Moriarty said, eyes dark, a sadistic pleasure running through him. Sebby gave John a quick look, then looked away in shame before giving a sharp nod and beginning to undo his pants.

* * *

 

Pain

Fear

Pain

It _burned_

It hurt

Blood

“ _Make him cry, I want the Holmes boys to see how pretty he is when he cries._ ”

_He_

Angry fists and too much liquor

_He_

Hot asphalt under him, old school mates who saw him when he was home from school and wanted revenge ( _for what, he didn’t know. For existing? For cutting his hair? For taking medicine? What were they so angry about? He’d never even fucked any of them in school, it’s not like he was causing a sexuality crisis in these little shites._ )

_He_

“Bitch just needs a proper man to fix ‘er up, like ‘er sister. Family of fags” they said

Yes, _that_ had been worse.

“ _He_ ” it was a small mercy.

You learn small mercies when you face down death. Laying under the sun, being grateful that hey, he may be bleeding out, but at least he was going to die with a full belly and some water in him. At least he wouldn’t die alone, it was too loud to feel alone. At least he got to see the bright blue sky once more.

At least

At least

( _At least Sherlock wasn’t here in person…_ )

* * *

 

It felt like hours, days, months, before Sebby was ordered to cum inside him. John grimaced and his breath hitched. He’d have to get tested. Thank god ( _or  more accurately, modern medicine_ ) he couldn’t get pregnant, because wouldn’t that have been the icing on the cake? A moment later Sebby was cleaning him up. His hands were firm, but not harsh or rough. They seemed to be shaking slightly, too.

“I’m sorry.” He said again. John just looked at him.

“Why did you do this?” he finally croaked out. Sebby seemed to flinch, or at least shy away, before grabbing the water close by and feeding it to John.

“You think I could leave?” he finally said. He paused before he dipped his hand between John's legs, cleaning clinically. John blushed and looked away.

“Besides, he’s my... he's my Sherlock,” the man continued briskly, “what wouldn’t you do for yours?”

John didn’t have an answer.

* * *

 

John’s hands were shaking almost as bad as Sherlock's.

It was almost sweltering in the bloody parka and in the damned pool. The smell of chlorine nearly smothering him worse than the bomb strapped across his chest, worse than the bit of semen Sebby had been unable to remove that was stuck to his inner thigh.

God, John just wanted this fucking night to be over.

And just like that, it was.

They went home. Sherlock shook badly when he saw John’s chafed wrists and threw his arms around the older man. John allowed it, tired, but afraid to be alone.

He was afraid that while he slept Sherlock would find out and that John would wake to an empty flat. Everything from chemistry sets to human skulls packed silently and whisked out the door with the man John was ( _yes, he could admit it, if only in his mind_ ) madly in love with.

* * *

 

A few weeks passed. Sherlock never said anything else about that night.

But things felt different. John knew Sherlock had activated the GPS on his mobile, though John hadn’t fussed. John also felt watched. He had the sneaking suspicion he was being followed by not one, but both Holmes brothers.

Mycroft had only come by the flat once, to fuss at his brother about going after Moriarty. Mycroft had hissed that Sherlock was going to undo all the work he’d done for his brother if he kept at it like this. ( _John wasn’t sure, but he thought both men flashed their eyes to where he was fixing a pot of tea in the kitchen._ ) He hadn’t even said anything to John beyond the polite necessities.

But when John went shopping, or to play a rugby game on the weekend with his mates ( _one or two boys from grade school who had been kind. They knew him as Emma, but put up no fuss when he came to them as John. Merely shrugged and said the next round at the pub was on him to celebrate. A few mates from college who had helped him stay on top of his classes when he had his top surgery, bringing him class notes and helping with projects and papers, and a few returned men from the army. Good men who weren't Sherlock, but were still brilliant._ ) John swore he saw someone watching him each time he looked up. Sometimes it was clean cut men and women who were clearly armed ( _he was no Sherlock Holmes, but John knew a trained, and armed, man when he saw one_ ) and other times it was homeless men and women, their beady eyes beneath unkempt beards and greasy hair following him down the streets. It was annoying, but John still didn’t have the energy to fuss.

Or maybe John was too scared to fuss. Maybe, and he didn’t want to know if this was the case, the Holmes brothers _knew_ what Moriarty had done, or rather had Sebby do _to_ him, and thought he couldn’t take care of himself.

He’d broken up with Sarah that day, three weeks after the pool. He told her some stupid lie about needing space and being concerned about blah blah blah… she looked relieved. John felt a weight lift off his chest as he climbed the steps to 221B, arms ladened with groceries.

He got popcorn, there were no cases on and he wanted to watch a movie with Sherlock tonight. John had taken to picking movies with the best twist he knew of and watching it with the genius. Sherlock admitted, after he had declared the major plot twist fifteen minutes into the second movie, that he didn’t actually figure out the twist from what was on screen. Rather he watched John and his reactions and deduced the twist from that. John kept putting on those movies and putting on his best poker face. It became a game of Sherlock deducing the twist from John and John trying to keep his face totally blank. ( _I_ _t wasn’t because John liked being the focus of Sherlock's attention, if only for a few minutes. That would be pathetic._ )

John's smile dropped though as he opened the door. Sherlock was sat in his chair, his hands steepled against his mouth. His whole body was tense as he stared at the laptop ( _John’s bloody laptop,_ again) in his lap. There were tears dropping slowly down his cheeks, but Sherlock didn’t seem to notice. He was deathly still.

It took John a moment, but he heard it, quietly, softly almost.

“ _…want the Holmes boys to see how pretty he is when he cries…_ ” on the laptop, past-John let out a broken angry gasp of horror, and an animal cry of rage. Present-John hissed, slamming his way into the kitchen. Sherlock jerked back, something like a sob passing his lips. The laptop slammed shut so hard John was sure it was broken.

John was shaking and breathing hard as he slammed about the kitchen. Cabinets banging and snarls leaving his mouth. Sherlock didn’t seem to have moved. It wasn’t until John’s shaking hands couldn’t open the tin of loose-leaf tea Sherlock liked so much and he gave a frustrated sob that Sherlock rose to his feet.

The tin popped open and spilled on the floor. John barked out a curse. Sherlock kneeled at his feet and began sweeping the shredded tea leaves into a small pile.

“We need to talk about this.” Sherlock said as he stood. His hands were still shaking as he walked to the trash bin and tossed the tea leaves in. He leaned against the counter next to John, crossing his arms and legs, biting his ( _stupidly perfect_ ) lip. John let out something broken and choked and leaned his head against the kitchen cupboards.

“Where did he send it through?” John finally asked, his voice so quiet and rough he wasn't sure if Sherlock had heard him.

“A comment, on my website.” John tensed again.

“It was a private link,” Sherlock continued softly, “and I took the comment down.”

“Do you want me to leave?” John's voice cracked.

“Why would I want you to leave?” Sherlock sounded hurt

“Cause I’m… cause he-“

“I’ve known your biological sex since you first walked into Bart’s. Honestly John, have a little faith in me.” John let out a broken chuckle.

“Yea, well, I _did_ fool multiple British officials to get out onto the field. Have a bit of faith in _me_.”

“I’ve something better than faith in you, I’ve confidence and trust, John Watson.” Sherlock sounded deadly serious.

There was silence for another minute. John’s body finally stopped trembling and his shaky legs carried him to sit down on the sofa. Sherlock joined him tentatively. When John didn’t lash out or shy away the younger man took a seat next to him.

“Was that the first time you watched it?”

“…no.” Sherlock admitted, but continued quickly “I was trying to figure out who that man was. I’ve seen him but I don’t know where, and the warehouse. I thought there might be… I had to watch it on yours you see.” Sherlock was babbling now, but he pointed to the corner of the living room. There was a crack on the window closest to the wall and Sherlock’s tablet lay on the ground, another crack in the glass. Sherlock looked a little embarrassed at his lack of self-control.

“Sebby,” John said, he felt dead inside, or tired, or scared, or, _something_ , he just didn’t know what. “his name was Sebby, short for Sebastian, I imagine. Military, not there of his own free will, or not totally, though I imagine you got all that.”

“Not really, I was too... upset to notice.” John snorted

“Dear God, who are you and where is Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock only mustered a weak half smile, before his face fell again.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t tell me you knew I used to be a..." John searched around for the right term. 

“It didn’t seem relevant.” John just gave a tired smile.

“It’s not,” he finally conceded “I can shoot, and I’m a damn good doctor. Doesn’t really matter to you what’s down there, does it?”

“You’re more than that, you know.” Sherlock sounded like he was scolding a child.

“Oh yeah?” John scoffed.

“You’re a brother and son, a friend, a detective-“

“That’s you.”

“It’s a joint effort.” Sherlock flicked his hand in a dismissive motion, as if he hadn’t been rekindling a fire within John’s chest, bringing back warmth he’d been fighting to find for weeks now. John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his own.

“I knew something was wrong. You haven’t been complaining about my network watching you, you broke up with Sarah today, you’ve been more affectionate and, and quieter. I saw the marks, I thought he had beat you. It was consistent, your dreams got worse, and usually playing the violin helps, but it hasn’t lately. I didn’t know what… I didn’t know what was wrong, and you didn’t tell me. But I guess now I understand. Normal people don’t _talk_ about this sort of thing, do they? But there’s just one thing I don’t understand.” John didn’t ask how Sherlock knew all of that and didn’t visibly react to his nightmares. He didn’t know he was screaming. Sherlock hadn't said he could hear John from downstairs.

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t gone to see your therapist.”

There was silence. John looked away, hunching over. He was reminded of when he was eight and his father caught him sneaking food from the cupboard. His father had many a drink that night and took a belt to John’s backside.

“Oh.” Sherlock said simply. He twisted towards John, almost as if he was about to curl around the older man.

“What?” John snapped irritably.

“You were waiting for me to figure it out.” John clenched his jaw and looked away. “You needed to see how I’d react first?” Sherlock asked. John pursed his lips, blinking harshly, but nodded in agreement. “Why?” Sherlock asked.

John felt something bubble up. Something made of dread, he let out a gasping sob and whimpered pathetically, nearly bent double. Sherlock made an animal sound of hopelessness and wrapped himself around John. It was an awkward position, but it left John in warmth and quiet, safe, if only for a moment.

“Because you weren’t going to try and get better if I turned you away.” Sherlock whispered gently, running his fingers through John’s hair.

John felt the dam inside him break, the years of tension, the fear, the joy, all of it, _all of it_. He threw his arms around Sherlock and dragged him into a bruising kiss. It wasn’t even a second before Sherlock responded in kind. They held tightly, less a kiss and more a contest to see who could squeeze air out of the other the fastest. Lips stayed against lips; hair stayed tangled between desperate fingers.

After a while they here both breathing normally. John realized what he’d done and released Sherlock. Sherlock made a sound of discontent at this but let go.

“I- I, I’m s-s-sorry.” John stuttered. Oh fuck, oh _fuck_ what was he thinking? Just because Sherlock was ok with him being trans and wasn’t kicking him out or blaming him for everything didn’t mean… “I shouldn’t have, that was wrong of me- I didn’t ask, I- I” John felt himself hyperventilating again.

Sherlock, who had been tense, his eyes filled with concern, softened. He smiled at John the way only he could. Adoring and exasperated, as though John was wonderful in his density. John was sure only _he_ would tolerate that look from another person. John was sure he would only tolerate that look from Sherlock.

“Oh John,” Sherlock shook his head, took John's face gently between his hands, and kissed John softly on the mouth. “You silly man. I’ve loved you since I saw you behind that yellow tape, waiting for me. Ever patient, ever loyal, pushing for better, staying through the worst. John what would I ever do without you?” John let out a laughing sob, tears still trailing down his face when he smiled a watery smile at Sherlock, leaning into the man’s hands.

Sherlock smiled again, kissed John once more, and hugged him tightly. John felt like the sun had finally come out after a bad storm.

“No more than this though.” Sherlock said sternly. John felt his smile dip. Because that hurt. That line that had been drawn by a hundred other men. Men frustrated with his body, not male enough to sate a gay man, not female enough for the straight ones, how many men and women had turned him away the first time they saw his body, confused and small minded? How many potential lovers had looked at him like something broken and pathetic. He _wasn’t_ , John wasn’t broken or pathetic. Yea, ok, he had to tear at his body to get it to conform to what he needed. Yea, he had his ( _albeit, rather small_ ) breasts removed and took chemicals to grow the hair on his face and along his chest. He wasn’t some broken thing though; he was like the cracked plates put back together with gold. His cracks were filled in with sunshine and confidence…

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock snapped irritably, pulling John tighter, “and let me finish my bloody sentence.” John smiled and tried to relax against Sherlock, ( _getting ahead of the data again,_ he chastised himself) “No more than this, _until_ you start seeing your therapist again. No more than this until you start letting me in and start doing what you must to help yourself.”

“Thought it was my job to take care of you?” John asked

“And now it’s mine to help take care of you in turn.” Sherlock said simply.

They sat for a few moments, until headaches from the tears set in, and they both needed to blow their noses and take a painkiller. As Sherlock sat in his chair and watched John make tea, he spoke up again.

“My brother picked you out, you know.”

“Whut?” John asked, flashing a confused look.

“My bother. I didn’t realize it until you walked into Bart’s. After I got clean Mycroft began tempering my allowance from my portion of the family fund. He told me it was for my own good. The less money I had, the less money I had to go back to the drugs. I threw a fit, of course. Had to move out of my last flat, started searching for a new one. He held the drugs over me for ages. Said if I said anything about the docked pay to Mummy, he’d tell her all about the drugs. Well that day, he texted me. Told me to kick Mike Stamford out of his own lab class and advise him go get a bagel and a coffee. And who did he meet in the park? An old friend, loyal, patient, in need of excitement and companionship, taking a stroll.”

“And Mike brought me straight to you.” John said in amazement. He hadn’t the energy to be creeped out that Mycroft was having him watched before he even knew either of the Holmes brothers. Sherlock hummed in agreement as John made him a cup of tea ( _perfectly, better than Mummy ever did, or he ever could_ ).

“I asked Mycroft about it right after you killed the cabby, that night after you'd gone to bed I called him. I thought he had hired you. He said no. He said dark things were to come, and I couldn’t face them alone, he started… _scouting_ men and women to be my companion. He came across you after you pulled your CO from that burning building. He said you showed promise. You were on a long list of names, though, by his own admission closer to the bottom. He wanted someone he could pay the rest of my monthly stipend to in exchange for being my keeper. But then you were sent home and he thought he’d put you in my path, test you. He told me that night he’d thought the test failed after you rebuffed him. He planned to tell me what I already knew, that you had PTSD, an abusive childhood, an alcoholic sibling who would rely on you, a million little things meant to discourage me. But then he pulled up at the scene, you had killed a man to save me, and not even trembled. He told me to not push you away, told me you were going to be the beginning or the end of me. Haven’t you ever wondered why you weren’t arrested, or at least dishonorably discharged after you were wounded?”

John shrugged, because, well, _yes_ , he’d wondered. People like him didn’t get to go home with a medal of valor and a monthly stipend and a bedsit. People like him got arrested, or stripped of their title, erased as embarrassments from the British armed forces. The law said either man or woman, and each had their place, and those places didn’t intersect. John thought that he’d just gotten lucky. Maybe the nurse who changed him was progressively minded and kept their mouth shut, maybe the friends John made pulled some strings, maybe, maybe, maybe. But honestly, it had seemed a godsend that no one said anything. No one even acknowledged the faded, nearly invisible scars on his chest, or the gentle curve of his waist that stubbornly refused to recede despite the muscles layered over it.

“Mycroft did that?” he asked, Sherlock grunted.

“It wasn’t how he intended to put you in my path. He was going to wait and plant an ad in the paper or online, depending which you read. He told me, though, that sometimes fate is a far more brilliant mistress than either he or I could hope to be.”

“Well,” John said, sitting across from his ( _boyfriend?_ ) “I guess he’s not nearly as pompous and dim as we give him credit for.”

“Only occasionally.” Sherlock answered solemnly before giving John a small smile. They lifted their teas to each other in a small toast and drank. The fire crackled. It was a long road ahead, but they had, if nothing else, each other to help them along.


End file.
